


Five Minutes

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Danger, Family Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Protective Dean Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6565303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had turned his back for five minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you read too much about child abuse and need to protect some fictional babies.

* * *

 

 

The flannel is too big for Dean, and its shoulders and its upper back are heavy with cold rain water. It’s not what’s making him shake, however. Not even the steady rumble of the Impala’s engine or John’s low, comforting grunts as he plans the way half-audibly to himself behind the wheel are enough to make it stop, but at least he’s calming down now. Sam’s curled up over his side, half of him resting on Dean’s lap and his fingers absently playing with his plump baby lips: usually Dean would smack his hand down, tell him he’s too old to nibble at his thumb, but this time he’s doing nothing of the sort. Instead, he’s got his arm around Sam’s shape and he’s holding him tight, his own fingers crossed over the boy’s waist, and the warmth and the sheer presence of his baby brother there is the only thing that really matters.

John had turned his back for five minutes.

 

* * *

 

The rain started like a curtain, washing through the bleak late summer, early autumn break. In its wake, the wet sky was the same shade with the dry spots in the asphalt wherever the corners of doors or stairs or trash bins sheltered it. On one side, a worn-down, sun-burnt sports field; on the other, a bad neighbourhood.

Dean held Sam’s hand on the sports field’s side, his eyes keen upon the dirty buildings and the piss-smelling alleys between them like cracks in a wall. Behind them, boys around Dean’s age in sports gear were running in the rain, yelling, throwing a ball to the tune of the teacher’s whistle, but they were further away, down a slope into the park. Next to the road, only the abandoned run track accompanied them, but in this weather no one was on it. 

John had crossed the road, and his boys watched him get dragged in by another man who looked like he belonged on that side of the road in his dirty clothes and oily hair. The door closed behind them.

“You boys stay right here and don’t move,” John had told them, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He hadn’t even noticed the rain.

“Do we have to stand here?” Sam asked Dean, wriggling his wrist free from the older’s hold and then tugging at his sleeve instead.

“Dad told us to,” Dean told him, even though he, too, was eyeing at the dry alley on the other side with longing.

“I’m _cold.”_

Sam’s words were followed by a hesitant silence. Then, when the water started trickling down along Dean’s scalp and even inside the collar of his tee underneath the flannel, he gave in.

“Let’s cross the road. It’s dry in that alley. We can wait for Dad there.”

Sam’s hand joined with his again, and Dean tugged him across the road. Aside from a parked car that now had small rivers painted into its dust-covered windows, this road was as abandoned as the track was. They backed into the alley were the stench was almost too thick to breathe, and aimed their eyes towards the ball game instead, trying to forget about the smell; at least it was better than getting drenched in the rain. Slowly as the rain’s wetness tempted other smells out, or as Dean’s nose got used to the stench of urine, he started smelling the sweet, nauseating odour of rotting trash from the bin behind them, too; he shuddered, perhaps because of the cold water seeping into his clothes, but he could have sworn it was because of the smell.

Then, suddenly, perhaps three minutes after they’d crossed the street and taken shelter in the crack between the walls, a man came out of the filthy car that Dean had considered all but deserted. He was around John’s age, but there was none of that warmth in him: he approached them almost like an animal, something oddly predatory about him. Dean tugged at Sam’s hand and pulled him closer.

“Hey, boys,” the man said just before stopping in front of them.  
He was smiling, but it didn’t seem to meet his eyes. His brown eyes were sharp and keen and moved swiftly between Dean and Sam, and then the door through which their father had disappeared.  
“Your daddy gone in for a drink?”

“Don’t say anything, Sammy,” Dean hissed.  
Sam’s fingers wound tighter around his hand and he felt the boy move up closer to him.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to be scared. I was just worried, see, I see a lot of kids left out here when their parents go in to do business. I don’t like that at all. I usually offer them an ice cream, but it’s a little cold for that today, isn’t it.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Dean stated clearly, “We’re doing good. Dad will be here in a minute. He told us to wait.”

“I understand that. I do - I’m a stranger. Your daddy told you not to talk to strangers, did he?”

Sam nodded.  
“Yeah,” he said in his small, dumb voice, and Dean tugged hard at his hand.

“I told you not to say anything. Let me handle this.”

But the damage was done: the man knelt in front of Sam, completely uninterested in Dean for the time being.  
“And what’s your name?” he asked him.

Sam glanced at Dean, concerned.

“None of your business,” Dean told him, but the man kept ignoring him.

Instead, he reached a hand out and pushed Sam’s wet hair off his forehead with his sun-tanned fingertips. Dean shuddered again. He wanted to tell the man to step away, but there was a hard bit stuck in his throat and he couldn’t get his voice to work.

“You want some hot chocolate, don’t you? And your big brother, too. He’s just a little scared. Why don’t you both come in - I live just around here, it’s not too far, I’m sure your daddy won’t mind. Maybe he won’t even notice.”

Sam pushed his face into Dean’s sleeve, one eye peering out at the strange man who stood up again and turned his dead smile towards Dean instead. Dean tried to dodge him, but the man was quicker, more determined, and his fingers wound firmly around Dean’s slim arm before he could step away from his reach.

“Come on. I’ll take you there. It’s not that far.”

Dean whimpered when the man pulled him around and started dragging him deeper into the alley, and Sam’s hand slipped almost out of his grip at the sudden tug. Then, distinct even through the pouring rain, Dean heard the click of a gun.

“Step away from my children, or I will shoot you.”

John’s voice was calm, steady, like on those numerous times he’d told Dean to put down something he hadn’t been allowed to pick up, but when Dean turned his head to see him, his body went cold with just the sight of the rage that was radiating from him. The bruising grip around his arm fell apart like water, and the moment he was free, he ran for John. So did Sam: he’d held on as long as Dean was still trapped, but the moment he wasn’t, both the boys had charged for safety.

“Whoa, whoa, no need for that in here, trust me. I just thought, people leave their kids out here all the time and then don’t come out for hours, I’d just take them in and -”

“I don’t care what you thought, or what you were doing. You have thirty seconds to disappear before I call the cops on you. And neither of us wants that, do we.”

The man swallowed visibly, then turned and made a run for it. He didn’t sprint, just barely jogged, but Dean could see the tension in him. John’s hand, the one without a gun, ran through his hair in a comforting manner, but something about the gesture made Dean feel like he was doing it more to make sure that Dean was really there - as if to assure himself that his boy was solid and real and there by his side. Dean glanced at Sam and saw him press up against John’s thigh the same way he’d pressed up against Dean only moments earlier.

John made a small, raw sound as he pushed his gun back underneath his jacket and grabbed Dean’s shoulder, then Sam’s.

“C’mon, boys. Let’s get out of here. It’s almost time for lunch, don’t you think?” he growled, gently pushing them both back towards the Impala parked just around the corner.  
“You need a change of clothes, too, but we can do that in a real bathroom. Sorry, kids, I should have told you to stay in the car. Didn’t even notice it started raining.”

Under his breath, Dean could hear him add: “You turn your back for _five fucking minutes._ ”

Somehow, the anger in his father made him feel a little bit better.


End file.
